Combat Training
by Lania26
Summary: "Why do they call you Tormund Giantsbane? Are you a great slayer of giants?" Her chin was in her hand and she was still smiling. This one was new to him also. Devilish and a little mocking. And Tormund wondered, just how many smiles did this girl have?
1. Chapter 1

Their story began on the day of the battle for Winterfell.

Bleeding from half a dozen wounds, so sore he could barely walk, he'd limped down into the dungeons to be alone. No, he hadn't followed her. Hadn't thought of offering her protection when she met her monster. He'd only wanted a place to sit and drink in silence. Somewhere he could drown out the battle still raging in his head.

He'd settled in a shadowy corner, drink in hand, head against the cold stone wall, and fallen into a half-sleep, so that at first he didn't see her enter. Their conversation, held in low tones filtered in through his dazed mind slowly at first. His cold menace and her soft vengeance.

It was the growling of the dogs that startled him out of his stupor. Low, and mean in the darkness. And he'd stood, staying concealed in the shadows. He could see her form, a little ways ahead, cloaked in heavy furs, red hair afire in the torchlight.

The screams followed shortly after.

Screams of terror and pain and frustration. And Tormund had seen her face in the torchlight as she glided away. The perfect lady, all cool and calm and collected, except she'd smiled a little half smile, one side of her mouth lifting ever so slightly up at the end.

Satisfied.

Avenged.

He'd seen her smile a hundred times, seen her face alight with joy at being reunited with Jon, seen the fond way she looked at her lady knight, Brienne, and the polite smiles she gave to the little people like himself, the ones he knew were bred into her—trained by septa and lady mother—so that they were more reflex than feeling. But he'd never seen this smile before. This smile that would not have been out of place on a spear wife standing over her fallen opponent on the battle field.

And it got him thinking. That maybe—just maybe—there was more to the perfect lady after all.

She hadn't seen him there, hadn't felt his eyes watching her, and so after her form retreated up the stairs and out of sight, he'd gone to the iron bars that had housed her lord husband, the Bolton bastard, and watched as the dogs fought over his remains. A worse sight he'd never seen. Not even among the Thenns.

Good for her, he'd thought. Good for her.

That night, in the great hall, there was feasting, though the stores were meager and many of the men wounded or battle weary. Still, there was spiced wine by the barrel and hot food. Hot! And cooked through. Not salted and cold or burned over a spit fire—charred on the outside and raw in the middle—as he was used to.

And the lady had gotten drunk.

He'd never seen her have more than a glass of wine, never seen her poise slip except earlier in the dungeon. And this made twice in one day.

Tormund was intrigued.

And so he'd watched her. Interested to see what she'd do next.

She'd changed out of her furs. In the crowded common room, several fires burned in stone-lined hearths, and no outer layers were required. Her dress was the color of fir trees, deep and dark, and cut low, revealing ample amounts of milky skin.

Tormund tried not to let Jon see where his thoughts were leading whenever his eyes landed on her form.

At one point in the evening, Jon had offered to accompany her to her rooms, but she refused. She didn't want to be alone, she'd said. If she'd been anyone else, Tormund would have offered to keep her company for the night then and there, but of course he couldn't. Not only because she was a Southern lady in her ancestral home surrounded by men sworn to serve her (and thus, butcher the wildling fool who affronted her), but also because she was Jon's little sister.

Jon who was like a brother to him. Who he'd never want to betray.

Jon who was also the best swordsman in the room. And Tormund did not want to die tonight. Especially after fighting so hard and so long to survive the day.

So he watched her, and drank, and expected nothing else to come of it.

It was only after Jon left the table to speak with Sir Davos that she spoke to him.

"Ramsay Bolton is dead," Sansa said, taking a sip from her goblet and promptly hiccuping.

"Good," Tormund replied.

She nodded, her eyes on her goblet. She didn't seem happy with his response though.

"He deserved it," he added.

Her eyes snapped to his face then, searching.

"He did, didn't he? She paused for a moment, the silence heavy between them. "Tell me, Tormund, do all men who deserve to die, die?"

She knew his name. That surprised him for some reason, though he'd been in her company for weeks and it shouldn't have. And for some reason, he wanted to lie to her. To comfort her.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

"No. Not in my experience. Some of the worst shits I've ever met just keep on living. And some of the best…"

He trailed off thinking of Mance. Thinking of the men they'd lost today by the score. Good men. And bad men. But men all the same.

And her face was sad.

She was thinking about her brother. She must have been. The little one, not yet a man, who'd died with an arrow in his back. Slain by her bastard husband. She hadn't been there when he fell, but she'd seen his body laid out in the crypt. She'd seen to his burial services. And maybe she was thinking of the others. Her sister—what was her name—Arya, maybe? And her brother, the King of the North whose head had been chopped off at his own wedding, his dire wolf's sown on and paraded around the castle. And her other brother. The cripple. Who no one had heard word from in months. Was he dead too?

Tormund had spent his life believing that the Southern lords were weak. That their lives were so much better and easier beyond the wall. But tragedy seemed to hit here just as it did in the North.

"Did Jon tell you how horrible I was? When we were little?" She asked a few minutes later.

Tormund didn't reply. Jon hadn't told him anything about his half-sister until she'd arrived at the wall, and then he hadn't spoken of their past at all.

"No," she said, answering her own question. "He wouldn't have."

She took another gulp of her wine.

"I hated him. Well, I thought I did. I didn't really know anything about hate then. But I called him bastard and was unkind any chance that I got. I felt sorry for my mother, you see. She was so ashamed of Jon. He was the reminder of my father's infidelity that followed her around wherever she went. So I was horrible to him. And it wasn't his fault."

Tormund was surprised to see tears in her eyes. The last thing he needed was a drunk crying woman.

"Jon only told me good things about you." It wasn't a lie really. Just a half truth. For some reason, he didn't think she would like to hear how little Jon actually spoke of her.

"That's sweet of him," she said, draining her goblet. "But you don't have to lie to me, Tormund. You aren't very good at it."

She smiled at him then and he felt his chest tightening for some reason.

" _Get a grip, you idiot,"_ he told himself. _"Jon will skin you alive."_

"Why do they call you Tormund Giantsbane? Are you a great slayer of giants?"

Her chin was in her hand and she was still smiling. This one was new to him also.

Devilish and a little mocking.

And Tormund wondered, just how many smiles did this girl have?

"Aye," he replied.

"And could you teach me to fight?"

He stared at her.

"My septa always said that words were a lady's weapon," Sansa said. "And I've learned the truth in that. But I want to learn to defend myself with more than words."

"You should ask Jon. He is a great swordsman."

"I don't want to learn the sword. I couldn't even pick one up let alone wield it properly. And besides, Jon doesn't have the time."

"And I do?"

She looked at him for several long seconds, debating how honest to be.

"Jon won't train me properly. He'll go easy on me. He won't want to hurt me. You know it's true."

"And I would? Hurt you, I mean?"

"Yes, I think you would. You don't care about me—you don't care if you split my lip or ruin my dress or make me black and blue all over. And you fight dirty."

For some reason her assessment brought out a bark of laughter. Deep and booming. Several people nearby turned and stared at the two of them.

At Sansa Stark and Tormund Giantsbane.

The lady and her wildling.

"Aye, I could teach you to fight dirty. With your hands and your elbows and your knees. With knives and rocks and whatever other sharp thing you could get your hands on. But your brother would never allow it."

"He will." She was resolute in her answer. "Jon may be my brother, but he is not my husband. And I am lady of this castle. I outrank him. And you are a free man. Unless what I've heard of the wildlings is untrue."

She sat up straighter in her seat. Some of the wine haze cleared from her eyes.

"So will you teach me to fight, Tormund Giantsbane?"

He stared at her for a moment. Took in her pretty face. The green eyes, the auburn hair, the perfect skin. Her smooth little hands that hadn't done a days labor in her life. Could he really teach someone like her to fight like a wildling?

Then he remembered her secret smile in the dungeons and the pulpy remains of her former torturer.

Remembered that there was more to this lady than the face she showed the world.

"Aye," he said, holding out his hand for her to shake. "I can try."

Her answering smile was slow and sweet as she took his hand and at that moment Tormund knew that no good would come of this.


	2. Chapter 2--Sansa

The next morning found Sansa and Tormund in the practice grounds of the castle courtyard. But the sparring lesson was not going very well.

For one thing, Sansa had not come properly attired and Tormund couldn't catch his breath from laughing.

"How are you going to fight in that— _thing_?" He asked her when his laughter had subsided enough that he could form a coherent sentence.

"What? My dress?" She asked, all wide eyed innocence. "What's wrong with it?"

It was a simple dress of pale blue linen, form fitting across the chest and flared at the hip and sleeve.

"You can't move in it," Tormund explained.

"Well, I can dance in it."

Tormund shook his head, agitated.

"There's too much for your opponent to grab hold of. Your hair too, for that matter. Tie it back."

So she'd changed into a pair of Robb's old breeches she found in his chest and her riding vest, and tied her hair in a tight knot at the back of her head.

She'd paused for a moment before putting the clothes on, holding the breeches to her chest, feeling the soft worn fabric under her fingertips. Robb had been just a boy when he'd last worn these. She pushed the thought away. No good ever came of thinking of the past.

When she arrived back in the yard, Tormund was waiting.

But he wasn't alone.

Jon watched her approach, his face inscrutable.

Sansa had always found it difficult to read her half-brother, even when they were children, and she found that it hadn't gotten any easier in the years they'd spent apart.

"Sansa," Jon said in greeting. "Tormund was just explaining to me that he's training you for combat."

He said it like it was a joke, but she knew he didn't find it funny. Tormund, in a surprising act of chivalry, made an excuse of looking over the weapons rack to give them some privacy.

"I thought it was time I learned to defend myself," she said.

"Sansa, you don't need to do this," Jon said, stepping closer to her and lowering his voice so that he couldn't be overheard. "I'll always be there to protect you."

She looked into his eyes. Warm and brown and foreign to her.

"Will you, Jon?" She asked quietly. "Before I went South, I had four brothers and a father to fight for me. Now, I only have you. And you cannot always be there. We both know that."

He stared at her, his face inexplicably sad.

"They were my family too."

She laid a hand on his shoulder, trying to impart as much comfort as she could.

"I know. But now, we have to do everything we can to keep each other alive. And if that means learning to defend myself, then that's what I have to do."

"Would you rather me teach you? Tormund is a good man, but he's…" Jon trailed off, and together, they both turned their gaze on the wildling warrior, who was tossing a battle axe around like a toy, sending it sailing through the air over his head to land in the snow beside him.

"A little rough around the edges," Sansa finished for him, a smile playing at her lips. "No, Jon, I think he's exactly what I need."

Jon took his leave from her then, with a slight bow of his head. He clapped Tormund hard on his shoulder on his way back to the castle interior, and said something out of Sansa's hearing that earned a bark-like laugh from the wildling.

When Tormund rejoined her a few moments later he was smirking.

"Much better," he told her, indicating her outfit.

She thought his eyes might have lingered at little too long on her vest, which was snugger than she'd remembered it being, but she ignored it.

Sansa was beginning to learn that Tormund Giantsbane was an insatiable flirt.

"First things first," Tormund began, squaring off in a fighting stance. "Hit me."

"What?" She glanced at his face. Surely he was kidding.

Except he looked perfectly serious.

"I need you to hit me," he repeated, slowly like he was speaking to a child. "I need to see what you can do. What your strengths and weaknesses are."

He held up his hands in front of him, palms facing her.

"Hit me, right here in my hand. As hard as you can."

She glanced around the yard to see if anyone was looking. They were far from alone. There were men all over the castle and the grounds these days. Northern men and wildling men and Vale men. A couple of Mormont men were practicing swords a few yards away while others gathered around talking and laughing before heading out on watch. A Vale knight kept glancing at her surreptitiously from across the courtyard while he saddled his horse, no doubt wondering what the lady of the castle was doing dressed like a boy and talking familiarly to a wildling warrior.

"Sansa, look at me."

She turned her attention back to Tormund. To his scraggly beard and wildly unkempt hair. To his impatient expression.

"Do you want me to teach you or not?"

"I do. But there's so many people watching."

"Forget them. Forget everything. Focus on me."

Her eyes locked with his. They were surprisingly warm.

"Hit me," he commanded again.

So she did. She punched out with her right fist, felt the sharp impact of her hand against his, heard the crack of skin on skin, and pulled away, hand smarting. Her eyes immediately found his. He was smiling.

"Good!" Tormund exclaimed.

"Was it?" Sansa asked.

"Hell, no. But it's a start."

She laughed despite herself.

"First thing you need to know—don't wrap your fingers around your thumb," he told her, coming up close and taking her hand in his. "You'll break it that way. You want to keep it on the outside of your fist. Like this."

His hands were warm on hers and rough, calloused from years spent fighting and living beyond the wall. But not unpleasant. He rubbed his fingers lightly along the space just below her knuckles and she shivered.

"This is where you want the impact to be. Too high and you'll miss, too low and you'll hurt yourself."

Tormund glanced at her. They were standing very close, the winter air mingling between their bodies.

He stepped back, putting some distance between them, and brought his hands up in front again, palms out.

"Try again. Picture someone you hate and imagine you're hitting them. Can you do that, girl?"

"I'm not a girl," she muttered.

Pictures filtered through her mind. Ramsay and Joffrey. Cersei and Tyrion. Littlefinger and many more. Enemies and friends and everything in between.

The next time she struck out at Tormund, the force surprised even herself.

"Good." He smiled at her. "I knew you had it in you."

She shouldn't have been so pleased that this wildling felt her capable of violence, but she was.

And his enthusiasm was catching.

"Now," Tormund said. "You aren't very big or strong, but you can make up for that with these." He gestured to her elbows and knees.

"They're sharp, and if you put enough force behind them, you can do some damage."

"Alright," she agreed.

"The thing you want to focus on is putting one of those in someone else's soft spot."

"What do you mean?"

Tormund came up beside her, and touched her neck lightly.

"That's one," he said. "Your eyes too. And a woman's chest and a man's pecker—err—groin."

She hid her smile under her hand.

"Anyways, if you can inflict enough damage to one of those soft spots, then even someone your size can bring down a bigger opponent."

Again, he was standing too close. This time, Sansa took a step back, clearing her throat loudly.

"Right, let's practice," he said.

They spent the next hour running through defensive training exercises, with Sansa trying her best to land blows on Tormund's body and failing miserably. She quickly learned that his body was all lean muscle, battle trained and hardened, and that he moved much faster than she'd imagined, easily anticipating her every move and blocking it before she could inflict any damage at all. And although Tormund tried to be gentle with her, he managed to rip her vest, bruise her body, and on their last pass backhand her to the ground.

Tormund held his hand out to her to help her to her feet, but she ignored it. The cold was seeping into her breeches, but her bruised and aching body didn't want to move, and the sky overhead was such a pretty blue.

"Are you alright?" he asked, kneeling beside her.

"No." She glanced at him and groaned. "My head hurts."

He leaned over her body and touched a hand to her temple, surprisingly tender.

"Does that hurt?"

"Yes."

He was leaning in close. Too close to be proper.

She could see the tiny flecks of gold in his hazel eyes and the freckles on the bridge of his nose. She could smell him too.

Man and horse and woodsmoke.

Rich and alive.

His eyes drifted from hers down to her lips, parted in anticipation.

A moment hung in the balance.

Then her elbow came up, sharp and strong, and struck him in the side, hard against his ribs.

Tormund rolled off of her, coughing and laughing, and when he lifted his face to her he was beaming.

"You tricked me!"

The men in the courtyard had turned towards the commotion, some wandering closer to hear them better.

"You told me to use my strengths," Sansa reminded him.

"Aye, that I did."

His eyes roved the length of her body languorously, taking in the view of her chest heaving against the stays of her vest and the escaped pieces of hair falling around her face.

He looked proud and conflicted and more than a little aroused.

She watched him shake his head, as though clearing his thoughts.

"Maybe you'll be a warrior after all," he managed.

And Sansa smiled then. Bright and happy and for the first time in a long time, hopeful.

She held out her hand to him in truce and he took it, returning her smile in kind.

"I think you've learned enough for today," he said.

"Tomorrow, then?" she asked.

"Tomorrow," he agreed. "But don't think I'll fall for the same trick again, girl. It takes more than a pretty pair of eyes to distract me."

"Not in my experience," she said sweetly.

His booming laughter carried her out of the courtyard and into the castle interior, warming her long after it was gone. And back in her rooms, as she pulled the tattered vest over her head and ran a hand through her tangled hair, she found herself thinking of Tormund Giantsbane and his laughing eyes, and wondering what exactly tomorrow had in store for them.

Author's Note: Hello! Thanks for reading. Please leave me a review to let me know what you thought. Good, bad or ugly, I'd love to hear your opinion. Also, hoping to bring in our friend the Hound soon. :)


	3. Chapter 3--Tormund

Tormund looked for her at dinner that night, and lied to himself about the reason.

But every time someone entered the great hall, his eyes immediately went to them and fell away. Disappointed.

Jon too was absent.

It was late when he finally got up from the table. The food long cleared away and the hall mostly empty. A few men were buried in their cups, asleep and snoring. Others were talking among themselves.

A few Vale knights watched him warily as he stood and left the room.

They didn't trust the wildling raiders, no matter what Jon and the other lords told them.

Tormund smiled in their direction as he left.

He hoped they wet themselves.

On his way back to his chambers, he passed the doorway to Jon's rooms, the glow of firelight spilled out into the hallway and he paused on the threshold for a moment.

Sansa was inside sitting on the floor by the fire talking animatedly, her feet tucked beneath her on a bearskin rug, a few pillows scattered around her. Jon was there too, in a high backed chair across from her, and he was laughing. Several decanters of wine were scattered around them, in varying stages of emptiness.

"Tormund!" Jon called, when he spotted him. "Come and join us."

Tormund watched Sansa's face as he entered, afraid he was intruding on a private moment between her and her half-brother, but her face only seemed to grow brighter at his approach.

"We're playing a game," she told him as he settled on the floor between them. "Do you want to play?"

"What kind of game?" For some reason, her smile made him wary.

"The best kind." She replied. "I learned it from a friend in the Vale. You ask a question, and everyone in the room must answer truthfully. If they cannot, or if you catch them lying, they have to drink. But if they tell the truth, everyone else drinks."

"We don't have anymore cups," she told him. "So you can drink from this."

She passed him the nearest decanter. It was half-full of a deep dark wine. When he lifted it to his nose, it was cloyingly sweet. He made a face.

"Tormund doesn't like our Southern wine," Jon explained.

"He doesn't?" She turned her smiling eyes on Tormund. They were dark in the half-light of the fire and full of mischief.

"Do you think it's too weak because it came from south of the wall? Or are you simply afraid that once you develop a taste, nothing else will compare?"

There were undercurrents to her words that swirled between the two of them.

"Both," Tormund answered, his eyes on hers.

And she smiled, slow and sweet, and took a sip of her wine.

"Your turn," she said. "Ask whatever you wish to know. We have to answer truthfully."

What did he want to know? His eyes darted to Jon, who was staring off into the fire. Most of the questions her really wanted to ask her would have resulted in Jon putting a sword through his throat.

"Why does that Southern lord, Littlefinger, stare at you like he wants to eat you?"

Tormund didn't know where the words came from, but the thought had been bothering him all day. Ever since he'd noticed the silver haired lord watching their training session from the ramparts earlier. The lord's face had been still and expressionless, but his eyes were jealous. And they'd promised retribution.

Sansa looked away from him, and sighed.

"You're surprisingly good at this game," she told him, her fingers toying with the edge of the rug.

"Stop evading the question, Sansa," Jon said from his chair by the fire. "I'd like to hear this too."

"Fine. He wants to marry me. He wants to rule the Seven Kingdoms with me by his side. Because I look like my mother and he loved my mother his entire life." Her cheeks were stained pink with embarrassment or anger and she turned her gaze on Tormund.

"I answered truthfully, so you have to drink."

And so he did. The wine too sweet on his tongue.

It was Jon's turn.

"And what are you going to do about Lord Baelish?" he asked her.

"This is an extremely one sided game all of a sudden," Sansa retorted.

She ran a hand through her hair in frustration.

"I don't know what I'm going to do yet. He controls the Vale's forces at the moment, and there are rather a lot of them encamped within our walls, if the two of you hadn't noticed. So for now, I'm going to keep the peace until I can decide otherwise. Happy?"

Jon and Tormund drank again.

"My turn," Sansa said, rubbing her hands together. "Lets make this fun again, shall we?"

Her eyes darted from Tormund to Jon, then back again, and she smiled.

"This question is for both of you. Describe your ideal woman."

Jon laughed.

"She's punishing me," he told Tormund. "Because I made her tell me about her ideal man."

"And he was…?" Tormund asked, intrigued.

"Loras Tyrell."

"I did not say that!" Sansa exclaimed, sitting up and slapping her hand on the stone floor.

"You didn't have to," Jon laughed. "I already knew."

"Who the fuck is Loras Tyrell?" _And where does he live, so that I can kill him?_

"The prettiest knight in the Seven Kingdoms," Jon replied, a mocking tone in his voice. "Curling brown hair, doe brown eyes, beautiful muscles. Right, Sansa? He moves like a dream, didn't you say?"

"Shut up, Jon."

But she was laughing.

"So you like pretty boys?" Tormund asked her.

He didn't know why he felt so annoyed all of a sudden, but he felt like he could squeeze the decanter in his hands until it shattered.

"You don't get to ask questions. It's not your turn," she replied sweetly. "It's my turn and I asked _you_ a question."

"Easy. I like them willing," he replied.

"That's it— _willing_? That's all it takes? Not blonde or brunette, short or tall, fat or skinny? Just willing?"

Tormund shrugged.

"I'm a simple man with simple tastes," he said.

"You're lying."

"I'm not."

"So you're telling me that when you close your eyes at night, you don't picture anyone in particular?" Sansa asked him, leaning in close so that he could smell the perfume in her hair.

His eyes drifted to her full lips. To the soft skin of her throat, illuminated by firelight.

She had him there.

The last few nights he'd gone to sleep, he'd pictured her in his mind. Pictured her naked body stretched out beneath a pile of furs. He would have told her, except Jon was watching them closely.

So he took a long drink of wine instead. And he found, to his surprise, that it no longer tasted so sweet.

Sansa laughed.

"Tormund Giantsbane! Afraid of answering a question about his ideal woman. Jon, you'd better watch this one."

"Maybe I will," Jon replied. His eyes on Tormund were a little suspicious.

Tormund cleared his throat loudly. "I don't hear you answering her question, Snow."

Jon smiled.

"Willing," he replied.

"You both are no fun," Sansa complained. "They play this game much better in the Vale."

"I'm sure they do," Jon replied.

Sansa pulled a pillow out from behind her back and threw it at him, smacking him soundly in the face.

"Alright, I get to ask another questions, then," she said. "Since you both are such cheaters. Your first kiss. Describe it."

"Sansa, if I won't tell you about my ideal woman, why do you think I'll tell you about my first kiss?" Jon asked her.

"Because if you don't you have to drain your cup. I'm tired of being the only one here answering truthfully."

"Fine. My first kiss was in an ice cave north of the wall," Jon replied. "Her name was Ygritte."

"And was she pretty?"

"She was. Her hair was red like yours. Kissed by fire, the wildlings say. And she was wild and free."

"And what happened to her?"

Jon stared into the fire for a moment before draining the rest of his cup.

"I don't want to play anymore, Sansa. I'm going to bed."

He kissed her softly on the forehead before turning to Tormund.

"Make sure she makes it to her rooms safely."

Then he retreated into his bedroom and shut the door firmly behind him.

Sansa and Tormund were alone.

The room felt smaller someone. Closer. More intimate.

"I upset him," Sansa said.

"Aye, you did. But it's because the girl died. Shot through the back by a Crow. And Jon blames himself."

"Oh." Sansa traced her finger along the rim of her goblet causing it to emit a low, ringing sound. "I didn't know."

"Jon doesn't talk about it."

They sat in silence for a few moments, the only sounds the crackling of logs on the fire.

"Do you remember your first kiss, Tormund?" Sansa asked, trying to restore their earlier jovial mood. "Or have there simply been too many?"

Tormund smiled. "Aye, I remember. A girl in my village named Shiva. But we were children, then. It was nothing special. And what about you, girl?"

"Stop calling me girl. I'm not that much younger than you," Sansa reminded him. "My first kiss was taken from me during the battle of Blackwater Bay. While the river burned green with wildfire outside my window. He took a kiss and left me a cloak, and I haven't seen him since. I don't even know if he's still alive."

She trailed off.

"Gods, everything is so sad, isn't it? We can't even play a game anymore without practically weeping."

"It doesn't have to be," he told her.

"Teach me then, Tormund," Sansa said, leaning in close, her eyes fixed on his face. "Teach me how to live without being buried by loss."

And she was so close. He could practically feel her breath on his face. Could practically see the pulse leaping at the base of her throat. And he thought about taking her right there. In front of the fire. On the bearskin rug. Thought of making her forget for a time all the sadness in her eyes. Making himself forget everything for the span of a few glorious, exhilarating moments.

Then he remembered where they were.

And who they were.

That she was a lady. And he was a wildling.

That she was far above anything he'd ever hope to have.

"I should take you to your rooms," he said to her, leaning back on his hands and putting some space between them again.

Sansa blinked at the sudden shift.

"I don't need an escort in my own home," she muttered.

"Jon thinks you do."

"I don't care what Jon thinks," she said, standing. "And I don't care what you think. I don't need either of you."

He'd made her mad. That much was obvious.

"You did well today," he told her, standing too. "Training, I mean."

She ignored the compliment.

"You think I'm a fragile little girl, Tormund. But I'm not. I won't shatter when you touch me," she said, her voice low so that no one passing by would overhear.

"I never said you would."

"But that's what you think, isn't it? Poor pretty little Sansa. Used by all the men around her like a pawn in their games. No choices of her own."

"You're free to choose whatever you want."

"Am I?"

Her eyes were fixed on his face.

"Are _you_?" she asked.

How could he answer that?

He wanted to break something. And he wanted to pull her against him and bury his hands in her hair and steal the words from her mouth.

But he couldn't do any of that.

How free was he really in this land of lords and ladies?

"I'll see myself to my rooms, thank you," she told him icily, when he didn't respond.

"Sansa," he said, grabbing her arm as she swept past him.

She turned and looked at him. Looked his skin on hers.

Her expression half defiant and half afraid.

"It isn't as easy as you think," he told her.

"Nothing ever is," she replied sadly.

And then she was gone. And Tormund was alone.

Author's Note: Medieval drinking games existed. I'm almost sure of it. :) Hope you enjoyed. Bit more angsty this time around. As always, would love to know what you thought.


	4. Chapter 4

That night Tormund tossed and turned and barely slept.

Did she have any idea what she was doing to him?

What the sight of her trembling before the fire had led him to imagine?

He kicked the covers at his feet savagely.

 _Gods, he was a fool._

Unable to sleep, he got up from bed and went to the window, pulling back the curtains and looking out at the moonlit castle grounds. He remembered when he'd first seen Winterfell. He'd been in awe. That so few could have so much.

That was a little how he felt about Sansa. Awed. Stunned. Wide-eyed and idiotic.

 _This is Jon's little sister,_ he reminded himself. The lady of this castle. She trusted him to train her in combat and that was all. She wasn't interested in himas a man. A wildling with nothing to offer her but his sword and shield?

The idea was laughable.

Girls like Sansa Stark would want a castle of their own. Lands. Fine clothes and jewels.

And even if he did survive the coming battle, he wouldn't have any of those things. He didn't _want_ any of those things. Did he?

Tormund groaned and ran a hand down his tired face.

He needed a woman.

Badly.

He could go down into the wildling camp, he thought. From his room he could see their fires burning. Pinpricks of light in the darkness. There would be plenty of willing women there.

The thought did little to excite him.

He got back into bed then, and fell into a fitful sleep. His dreams were full of her.

Sansa stretched out before the fire. Green eyes blazing. Sansa in his bed. Long legs tangled in his sheets.

Sansa. Sansa. Sansa.

In the morning she was waiting for him in the courtyard.

A dream made flesh.

But under her eyes were shadows, and her cheeks were pale.

Had she been plagued by the same sleepless night?

"Good morning, Tormund," she called out to him as he drew near.

She wore an overlarge tunic that must have once belonged to her brothers and a pair of doe skin breeches. Her hair was braided and draped over one shoulder.

"Morning."

She looked bashful in the early morning sunshine. Bashful and beautiful with sunlight on her hair.

"About last night…" Sansa began.

"You don't have to apologize, girl." He told her, his voice gruffer than he'd intended.

Her eyes scanned his, head cocked to the side like a little bird.

"I wasn't going to apologize."

"No?"

The yard was full of the sounds of men. Armor clinking, horses whinnying. Men laughing and arguing and talking. But the silence between them was heavy and awkward.

She stepped closer to him but before she could speak, he interrupted, whispering in her ear.

"We have an audience."

Her eyes flickered around the yard.

"Where?" she breathed.

"Southern rampart."

She glanced where he'd told her and then away.

"Littlefinger is always watching," she told him, voice soft.

"Then lets go somewhere he won't follow."

They took their horses and Tormund guided them out of the castle, down the narrow road that led from the western-facing gate, and into the woods that surrounded the lands. Out here, in the wild, the air was heavy with tree sap and leaf mould. Tormund breathed deep. It had been a long time since he'd felt this free.

They dismounted in a small clearing. The ground was covered in pine needles and a light dusting of snow.

"What did you want to tell me?" Tormund asked. "Back there in the yard."

"It isn't important."

She wouldn't meet his gaze so he waited.

"Tormund, when I'm around you I say things that I shouldn't," she began. "I do things that I shouldn't. It isn't how a lady should act and I just wanted to tell you that it won't happen again."

He didn't respond. Just looked at her, standing there in the snow, telling him he could never have her.

"I've been drinking far too much," she continued with an embarrassed laugh.

"I like you when you drink," he admitted. "Your true self comes out."

"Tormund…"

He cut her off before she could say any more.

"Are we going to fight or what, girl? I don't have all day."

She nodded. Chastised.

He drew his sword from his scabbard and tossed it on the ground at the edge of the clearing, along with several knives he kept concealed in his heavy layers of fur. Finally, he pulled a small carving knife from his boot and tossed it in the snow by Sansa's feet.

"Pick it up," he told her.

When she did, he adopted a fighting stance, feet apart, knees bent.

"Now, come at me with the knife. Try to bury it in my skin."

"What?" Sansa asked, appalled. "Are you insane?"

"Aye, so I've been told."

She threw the knife back into the snow.

"I won't."

"You will, girl."

She crossed her arms across her chest. Eyes narrowed. Lips pursed.

"No."

Tormund studied her for a moment. Waiting. When she didn't move he walked up to her and placed one hand on each of her shoulders.

She felt fragile in his arms. He could have snapped her bones like a twig. And yet, there was a passion burning in the depths of her eyes. She looked away from him then.

This close, he could see the dark line of her lashes against her pale cheek.

"Sansa, you aren't going to hurt me."

"I could."

She still wouldn't meet his gaze but color bloomed in her cheeks.

"Your concern is touching," he told her, bending down to retrieve the knife from the snow. "But if you can best me in a fight, I deserve whatever damage you manage to inflict."

He took her hand, and placed the knife's hilt in her open palm, curling her fingers to make a fist around it.

Her eyes flashed back to his, then. They were worried and something else too.

"Can't I just—I don't know—practice on a tree or something?" She begged.

"A tree? I thought you wanted to learn to protect yourself from evil men, girl. Not evil trees."

"Very funny."

But a corner of her mouth turned up in a small smile.

"You promise I won't hurt you?" Sansa asked. "It's just…I've lost so many people, Tormund. And I'm just starting to like you."

"The feeling is mutual, girl," Tormund replied with a smile of his own. "Trust me. I'm going to be fine."

So Sansa did as she was told. She came at him with the knife. But half-heartedly.

Tormund disarmed her easily and knocked her to the ground.

"Try again," he commanded.

The next time, she came at him with more conviction. She managed a swing of the knife before he grabbed her wrist, grinding the bones hard until she cried out and dropped the knife into the snow. He swiped her feet out from under her for good measure.

When she got back up to her feet, she was fuming, and this time she didn't hesitate to pick up the knife.

She made a wild lung at him then, but he blocked her blow almost lazily.

"Anger makes you stupid," he told her. "You have to fight smart. Think of the knife as an extension of your arm and remember our earlier training."

They practiced for nearly an hour and by the end she managed to glance a blow off of Tormund's forearm, cutting though a layer of his fur outer coat.

Sansa's face was horrified when a thin line of blood began to seep through his sleeve.

"Tormund, you're bleeding," she said, letting the knife fall from her hands as though burned and taking his arm in hers.

Her fingertips were cool on his skin.

"Aye, so I am," he said as she inspected the cut.

Two inches long and shallow, it was hardly more than a scratch.

Still, Sansa tended to him as though it were a mortal wound.

He hid the smile that tugged at this lips.

"I think we may have to amputate," he told her gravely.

Her eyes jumped to his. Wide and concerned and so very beautiful.

There were snowflakes melting in her eyelashes. And he couldn't take it any longer.

Tormund reached out and cupped her chin gently in his hand.

"Sansa…" he began.

A voice cut between them like a knife.

"What's going on here?" asked Lord Peter Baelish. His voice colder than the frost-covered ground under Tormund's boots.

The lordling wasn't alone. A mounted Vale knight flanked him on either side, the pale sunlight glinting off their shining armor, their horses' breath steaming in the winter air.

Tormund cursed under his breath before releasing Sansa's face.

He stepped in front of her, creating a barrier between her and the mounted men.

The knife lay at his feet, and he bent down casually to retrieve it. One of the Vale knight's hands strayed to his sword belt, but he did not draw it.

Tormund's own sword lay across the clearing and was of no use to him now.

"I'm afraid you startled us, Lord Baelish," Sansa said, stepping out from behind Tormund's back. "Tormund is teaching me to fight. We were just practicing."

One of the Vale knights snickered, and Tormund wanted nothing more than to bury his knife between the knight's eyes.

Let him snicker then.

"You shouldn't be so far from the safety of the castle, my lady," Littlefinger said, his eyes on Tormund all the while. "Next time, you should bring your guards with you."

"Why?" Sansa asked. "Tormund can protect me."

Littlefinger's answering smile did reach his eyes.

"Can he? That's good to know. Still, one man may fall to many, no matter how fierce a fighter he is."

The threat in his voice was unmistakable.

"And you know much of fighting then, Lord Baelish?" Tormund asked.

Sansa squeezed his arm in warning but he ignored her.

"I know very little of fighting," Littlefinger admitted. "But I know a lot about winning. And isn't that the point, in the end?"

"Has something happened, Lord Baelish?" Sansa interrupted, before Tormund could reply.

"The lords of the North are gathering in the great hall," Littlefinger said. "You presence is required."

"We were just finishing up anyways, weren't we, Tormund?" Sansa asked him pointedly.

"Aye, I suppose we've done enough for today."

"Excellent." Littlefinger said. "We'll just escort you back to the castle then, shall we?"

The knights flanked them on either side, and gave Tormund little opportunity to speak to Sansa until they reached the castle gates.

She looked back at him then, as she dismounted, her face a mask but her eyes concerned.

And he gave her a small reassuring smile.

Then he watched as Littlefinger placed a hand on the small of her back and guided her inside.

And Tormund realized that unless he was mistaken, he'd made an enemy today.

Tormund joined them inside the great hall after he'd stabled his horse.

Sansa was seated at the dais with Jon. She'd changed out of her fighting attire and into something more befitting the lady of Winterfell.

The lords of the Vale and North were gathered at the lower tables. So Tormund joined the other wildling commanders at the farthest table. Davos was there too, he noticed. And Littlefinger was lurking in the shadows like a spider. His eyes watchful on Sansa's face.

The room was dark, though candles had been lit and pale winter sunlight trickled through the windows.

"You can't expect the knights of the Vale to side with wildling invaders," a pompous balding man cried out from a few seats down, looking disdainfully on Tormund and his men.

"We didn't invade," Tormund replied wearily, already tired of this conversation. "We were invited."

"Not by me."

 _Arrogant swine._

Tormund knew how this would be decided in a wildling camp, but here, surrounded by castle walls and men who were supposed to be his allies, he was at a loss.

"The free folk, the northerners, and the knights of the Vale fought bravely, fought together, and we won," Jon said, his chair scraping the stone floor as he pushed it back to stand. "My father used to say, we find our true friends on the battlefield."

"The Boltons are defeated," a young northerner cried out, interrupting him. "The war is over. Winter is come. If the maesters are right, it will be the coldest one in a thousand years. We should ride home and wait out the coming storms."

"The war is not over. And I promise you friend. The true enemy won't wait out the storm. He brings the storm," Jon replied.

How could these fools not see the truth before their eyes? They'd lived protected behind their Wall for a thousand years. And in that time they'd forgotten what winter really meant. Forgotten eyes like chips of blue ice, cold and merciless. Forgotten villages put to slaughter by dead men wielding swords that cut through flesh and bone and armor like they were water and shattered steel like glass.

The room dissolved into separate arguments and Jon's voice was lost in the cacophony.

"Have you ever seen a body rise from the dead?" Tormund asked the Vale knight who so disdained him. "Because I have. And so has Jon Snow."

Those around him quieted and listened.

He thought of Hardhome. Of the armies of the dead that waited just beyond the Wall.

His eyes fell on Sansa.

"I've seen eyes that were brown in life, turn blue in death. I've seen a man dead for hours attack his own village that same night. Seen him slaughter his children and not blink an eye. You thought the Boltons were merciless? They were nothing compared to what is coming. Listen to Jon Snow, or else everyone you've ever loved—everyone you've ever _known_ —will die."

Silence greeted his words.

"Tormund is right," Sansa said from the dais. "We must unite, or we will fall."

The little she-bear, Lyanna Mormont stood then.

"House Mormont remembers," she told the room. "The North remembers. We know no king but the King in the North whose name is Stark. I don't care if he's a bastard. Ned Stark's blood runs in his veins. He's my king. From this day until his last day."

The other houses stood then. Glover and Manderly and others. Great houses and small houses. And they lifted their swords and cried, "The King in the North. The White Wolf! Jon Snow!"

Afterwards, Tormund found Jon at the dais. Sansa's seat was cold and empty and she was no where to be seen.

"I hope you don't expect me to kiss your arse now that you're king," he told Jon.

"You know I don't expect any of the free folk to kneel to me," Jon replied.

"Good. Because they won't."

Still, he clapped Jon's shoulder on the way out.

They wouldn't follow Jon because he was a king. They'd follow him because they believed in him. Because they trusted him. Because Tormund trusted him. He hoped he wasn't wrong.

Tormund was nearly back to his room when he heard hushed voices coming from a stairwell around the corner.

He slowed to a stop when he recognized Sansa's voice. She was arguing with someone and although he couldn't see them, it wasn't difficult to guess the other voice belonged to.

"You should be the ruler in the North," Littlefinger was telling her. "Not your bastard brother."

"Jon is better suited for it. He's led armies before. He knows the Night's Watch. He knows the wildlings. Besides, no man would follow a woman into battle."

"They would follow you. You are the true born daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark, not some up jumped bastard. He usurped you and you did nothing to stop it."

"I didn't see you doing anything to stop it either," Sansa argued.

Silence fell for a moment and Tormund turned to walk away, not wanting to be caught listening.

He didn't care what the Littlefinger thought, but Sansa wouldn't have liked it.

Then he heard a small intake of breath.

"Peter, you're hurting me," Sansa said.

Tormund pulled a knife from his belt.

He would butcher the lordling where he stood.

"Why did you let the wildling touch you?" Littlefinger asked her, his voice angry and jealous. "Earlier in the wood."

Tormund stopped dead in his tracks.

"Peter, stop it," Sansa begged. "I already told you, he's teaching me to fight."

"Do you think that I'm stupid, Sansa? That I can't see the way he looks at you. The way that you look at him. If you need someone to fill your bed now that Ramsay Bolton is dead, I'm sure there are more worthy candidates."

A slap rang out in the quiet hall.

"Don't ever speak of Ramsay Bolton again. You were the one who sold me to him. Don't think that I've forgotten that, Peter. Every time he beat me. Every time he raped me. You were to blame."

"Sansa—"

"Don't Sansa me. I've had enough of you telling me what to do, what to say, what to think. We're done here, Lord Baelish."

He heard her retreat up the stairs. When he was sure she'd gone, Tormund rounded the corner.

And found himself face to face with Littlefinger.

There was a handprint on his cheek where Sansa had slapped him. Red and angry looking.

When Littlefinger saw Tormund standing there, knife in hand, he smiled a little mockingly.

"How much of that did you hear?" he asked.

"Enough," Tormund replied. He stepped closer. He stood nearly a head taller than the little lordling, and he enjoyed looking down at him.

"If you ever touch her again, I'll bury this knife in your guts. Lord or no."

Littlefinger's eyes regarded him cooly.

"Men tried to separate me from her mother, long ago. They're all dead now."

"Aye, and so is she."

Littlefinger shrugged.

"But Sansa is not. And I don't intend to lose her as easily as I lost Cat. You'd do well to watch your back, Tormund Giantsbane. Or you may find a knife in it."

He turned his back on Tormund then, and walked back towards the great hall.

Tormund watched him go, aching to cut his smiling head from his shoulders, until Littlefinger disappeared from sight.

When he reached his room a few moments later, Tormund was surprised to see the door slightly ajar.

He drew his sword, and kicked the door open, ready to gut the intruder.

Sansa turned in surprise from where she stood at the window. Her eyes were wide and wary and something else that he couldn't quite name.

She reminded him of a doe. Staring into the eyes of a hunter. Waiting for the arrow.

"Are you going to kill me, Tormund?" she asked him, a faint smile playing at her lips. "I have to warn you that a wildling warrior has been teaching me to fight. I won't be such easy prey."

He stepped inside and shut the door firmly behind him. He was tired of her games.

"You shouldn't be here," he told her as he sheathed his sword.

She came and stood before him, then. She was tall for a girl, and her eyes were nearly level with his mouth.

She regarded him from under her lashes.

"Are you angry with me?"

This close, he could feel the heat radiating from her body. Feel her breath against his throat. Smell the perfume in her hair.

The torment was nearly too much for him.

Her, here in his bedroom. In the place where he'd dreamt of her only hours ago. Already, visions were dancing through his mind.

He wanted to take her and lay her down in his bed.

He wanted to taste and touch and tease her and make love to her a thousand different ways until she forgot all about Littlefinger and Ramsay and anyone else who'd ever hurt her.

He wanted to hear her say his name.

He wanted to mark her as his own, for the world to see.

Something of what he was thinking must have shown on his face, because she bit her lip lightly in anticipation and reached out to lay a hand on his chest.

"Your heart is pounding like a drum," she told him, voice breathy in the stillness of the room.

"Sansa, are you sure about this?"

Her eyes on his face were warm and trusting.

"I'm sure."

And then, he bent down and kissed her.

And everything else fell away, except the two of them.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: This chapter is intended for mature readers only. Happy reading!

* * *

The kiss was soft at first.

Hesitant, almost.

Sansa moaned impatiently and pulled him closer, tangling her hands in his hair.

And Tormund responded in kind, lifting her up off of her feet and carrying her the short distance to his bed.

He laid her down gently and climbed on top of her, not stopping for a moment, his mouth hot and insistent on hers. His beard was rough against the soft skin of her face and neck, and his hands were busy with the laces of her dress.

She gasped when his lips found the soft hollow of her throat and traveled lower.

She called out his name, then, and Tormund pulled back from her and looked down into her face.

His hazel eyes were dazed and proud and also a little unsure.

No one had ever looked at her that way before, she realized.

Like they couldn't tell if she were alive or a dream.

He cupped her face possessively in his hands.

"Say it again."

"What?" she asked breathlessly, her eyes searching his.

"My name. I want to hear you say it again."

"Tormund?"

"Aye?"

"Shut up and kiss me already."

And he laughed then, that great booming laugh that she loved, and reclaimed her mouth with his.

She pulled off his heavy layer of furs, and the light linen tunic he wore underneath, and ran her hands down his bare chest.

He was more heavily muscled than she'd expected. His torso was long and lean and scarred. There was a tattooed marking on his chest, on the space above his heart, and she kissed the skin there, running her tongue along it lightly.

He moaned and pulled her up into a seated position, and onto his lap, and she wrapped her legs around his waist. She kissed the skin of his neck, climbing higher until she reached his earlobe. She gave it a playful bite.

He took her face in his hands then and kissed her hungrily.

When she bit his lip he moaned and pulled back.

She waited. Impatiently patient.

"Gods, Sansa, you're making me crazy," he said.

And he looked crazed. His eyes on her face were wild and hungry.

She could see a war raging in his eyes.

He wanted her. But there was something else too.

Her dress had slipped off her shoulder and Tormund nipped the bare skin there tenderly with his teeth.

Then he moved her off of his lap gently, leaving her feeling curiously bereft.

"I'm trying to be calm," he told her, running a hand through his untidy hair.

"Why?" she asked.

She didn't want him calm. She wanted him wild and fierce. Possessive and protective. She wanted him to kiss her and never stop.

There were a few inches of space between them and she longed to lean in and close the distance.

Tormund looked at her but didn't say anything. She'd never seen him so unsure before.

"Tormund?"

He got up from the bed then and paced to the window.

He turned back and looked at her, his face troubled.

"Look at you," he said.

Like that explained anything at all.

Sansa settled back against the head of the bed. The sunlight trickling around the edges of the curtains was warm and soft on her face. And the pillows smelled of him.

He was torn and she was content.

"Are you afraid of me?" she asked him, realization dawning on her all at once.

"Me? Afraid of you? He laughed, but it wasn't convincing. "Shouldn't it be the other way around, girl?"

When she didn't answer, he continued, his voice low and impassioned.

"Sansa, I was killing dead men north of the Wall when you were just a little girl playing with dolls. I've stolen, and raided, and murdered. I've seen things that you couldn't even dream up in your worst nightmares."

"Stop trying to scare me," she warned him. "It isn't working. I've known bad men, Tormund, and you aren't one of them."

Ramsay's face filled her mind unbidden and she shuddered, wrapping her arms around her legs and hugging herself tightly.

Sometimes, it seemed like all she knew were bad men. Couldn't Tormund see that?

She felt the bed creak under his weight when Tormund settled beside her, but she didn't look at him. She was angry now. Angry at him and angry at herself.

"Sansa, look at me," Tormund said.

She refused.

He reached out and gently lifted her chin up so that she was looking into his face.

His eyes on hers were fierce.

"I would have ripped him apart with my bare hands," he told her. "Before I let him hurt you."

She reached out then, and placed her right hand on the skin above his heart, which beat a steady rhythm against her palm. Unbidden, a smile tugged at her lips.

"Do you swear?"

Tormund covered her hand with his and his eyes on her face were warm and true.

"Aye, girl. I swear it. No one will hurt you again, so long as there is breath in my body."

His heart was beating faster now under her hand and his gaze didn't waver as she climbed over top of him and settled back onto his lap, her legs straddling him.

She smiled then. Slowly. Triumphantly. And placed a chaste kiss underneath his earlobe, allowing him to feel her pressed against him for a moment.

When she drew back, his eyes followed her longingly.

"Tell me Tormund Giantsbane," she said, seated on his lap, with her shoulders bare and her hair falling around her in a glorious tangle. "Are all wildling men so slow to make love to their women?"

He fell on her then, hungrily, his mouth urgent against hers, one hand snaking around her waist to pull her harder against him, the other cupping her breast until she moaned against his fevered lips.

Tormund shifted their position, flipping her over as though she weighed nothing at all, and settling her back against the bed with him on top.

Instinctively, she parted her legs, allowing him to settle between them, and Tormund ran his hand up up up. From her ankle to her calf to her thigh and then higher.

Sansa gasped at the sensation of his fingers on her, moaning and letting her head fall back on the pillow, as he sucked on the soft skin of her neck.

He put a hand over her mouth to quiet her.

And she was glad of it a moment later when a knock sounded at his door.

Tormund pulled back from her. Eyes momentarily glazed with lust. He shook his head and some of their clarity returned. Now, he only looked angry.

Sansa could hardly guess what her own expression looked like.

Terrified most likely.

But more for him than for herself.

She'd be disgraced true, but he could be killed, depending on who was waiting outside.

"What?" he bellowed, pulling a knife from his boot.

The door began to creak open.

"Get the fuck away from that door!" Tormund roared.

And whoever it was retreated hastily, the door banging on its hinges, before closing again.

"Tormund," a vaguely familiar voice called from the other side. "It's Davos. Jon wants to talk to you."

Tormund groaned quietly and laid his head face down in the crook of her neck.

"I swear I'm going to kill your brother," he muttered into her hair.

If she wasn't so afraid of being caught, she would have laughed.

"Go," she urged him.

He looked at her then.

To stop was unthinkable.

Not to stop was impossible.

"Tonight," she promised him in a whisper. "I'll come to you tonight."

"You'd better," he said. "Or I'll come find you."

Sansa smiled. "Go," she said again.

And so he stood, pulling on his furs. He gave her one last lingering look before he stepped out into the hall, careful not to open the door wide enough to expose her.

After he was gone, Sansa put her hands over her eyes and groaned.

She was alone in his room. In his bed. In sheets that smelled like him.

She lifted her fingertips to her swollen lips.

 _What was she doing?_

She'd never felt so alive or so foolish.

He'd practically admitted that he cared for her. He certainly felt protective of her, at the very least.

But how did she feel about him?

She sat up in the bed and adjusted her dress from where it had slipped on her shoulders, retying her laces as best she could, before crossing to the window. In a thoughtless instant, she almost pushed back the curtains to look over the grounds before she realized what a mistake that could be.

Littlefinger already wanted Tormund dead just for looking at her. For touching her face. If he'd known what had just occurred between them—what she'd promised him tonight—he wouldn't hesitate to order his death.

Her very presence here endangered him.

She crossed to the door and pressed her ear against the smooth wood, listening for sounds in the hall. Her heart was pounding a jagged tempo in her chest as she waited. When she was certain it was clear, she peeked her head out of the door, looking up and down the hall before stepping out and shutting the door quietly behind her.

She was halfway down the hall before her chest loosened enough to breath naturally, and nearly back to her own rooms before her heart stopped hammering.

" _Could she really come to him tonight?"_ Sansa wondered. And more importantly, _could she even stay away?_


	6. Chapter 6

Tormund stalked down the sun-brightened hall, Davos beside him.

He was trying to keep his face blank, but the Southerner kept eyeing him curiously.

Tormund had never given much thought to Jon's advisor before. Sir Davos was a quiet man, brave and loyal, so far as Tormund could tell. He gave Jon good advice, even if he had served that other king, Stannis, first. And he'd cared about the little princess, the one the red witch had burned. That much was obvious. Men who were kind to little ones didn't concern Tormund overly much. In his experience, they weren't all that likely to stick a knife in you without reason.

But now, he was less sure.

What had Davos heard? And what had he guessed? Did he know the lady of the castle lay nearly naked in his bed at this very moment? Did he have any idea what he had just interrupted?

An image of Sansa filled his head, then.

How she'd looked underneath him. Eyes filled with lust and lips parted in anticipation.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts.

"This had better be important," he growled.

"Why? What else were you planning on doing today?" Davos asked.

Images of Sansa flickered through his mind again. None fit to share with the Southern lord.

He grimaced.

"I've never seen you so agitated," Davos continued. "You almost attacked me when I tried to come in your room just now."

"Aye." Tormund stared resolutely ahead. "It's rude to enter a man's rooms uninvited. Or didn't you know that, Onion Knight?"

They walked for a few more moments in a silence only punctured by the scuffing of their boots on the stone floor.

Sansa's dress had slipped from her shoulders, he remembered. All that milky white skin.

Tormund groaned.

"I need to hit something," he muttered under his breath.

"What was that?" Davos asked.

"I said, I need to bloody well hit something."

Davos stopped, thought it took Tormund a few moments to notice it. Finally, Tormund circled back to the Southerner.

"Jon needs us calm and collected," Davos said in hushed tones.

"Is that what you are, Sir Davos? Calm and collected?"

"I don't like working with them any more than you do, Tormund. But if the knights of the Vale hadn't shown up, our bodies would likely be rotting on the battlefield right now. As it is, I'd rather fight beside them than against them."

Tormund laughed. Surely, the man couldn't be that dense. Could he?

"Is that what you think I'm angry about?" he asked the Southerner, just to be sure.

He watched Davos' face closely, but it only registered confusion.

"Isn't it?" Davos replied.

Davos didn't have a clue. Sansa was safe.

"Oh, aye," Tormund said, clapping Davos roughly on the back. "Knights of the fucking Vale. Hate them."

"Well, you're going to have to control that wildling temper of yours," Davos replied. "Littlefinger has come forward with some information and Jon is going to want our help in dealing with it."

"Littlefinger, eh?"

Just hearing the name made Tormund's shoulder blades itch. That was one man who wanted to put a knife in his back, make no mistake. Not that he'd ever be dumb enough to try it himself. Sansa probably fought better than the little lord. Still, whatever Littlefinger had to say, Tormund guessed it wouldn't bode well for him.

They reached the great hall then, and entered.

It was emptier than it had been only an hour before. Only Jon, Lady Mormont, Lords Glover and Manderly, Littlefinger, and a few Vale lords were inside, seated before one of the long tables. The dais stood empty. Tormund took that as a good sign. Jon might be King of the North now, but it didn't appear that he was going to rule like a typical king.

When Jon heard them approach, he looked up and gave a small smile, relief evident on his face.

 _Careful_ , Tormund would have cautioned him if they'd been alone. _Don't let them see you trust the advice of a wildling and a smuggler more than your own sworn lords._

"Davos, did you not find Sansa?" Jon asked, a wrinkle marring his brow.

"She wasn't in her rooms."

Jon frowned.

"Tormund, have you seen her?"

Each of the lords and ladies gathered shifted their attention to him.

Tormund fought to keep his face expressionless as he lowered himself into a chair. He hated lying to Jon, but what else could he do?

"Not since this morning."

Jon sighed. "She should be here."

"I will be sure to pass on the information to her," Littlefinger said, a smile on his face that didn't reach his eyes.

Tormund would have loved to point out that that might be difficult, given that Sansa wanted nothing more to do with the little lordling. He would have also loved to offer to tell her himself. Maybe mention exactly where she could be found. But now was not the time for a pissing contest. Especially if it brought unwanted attention that might keep them apart.

Jon nodded curtly in agreement with Littlefinger's offer.

"Alright, let's begin then. Lord Baelish, can you repeat what your scouts reported for everyone here?"

"Of course, Your Grace," Littlefinger began.

The sound of his voice alone was enough to make Tormund want to beat him bloody.

Did Jon trust this little weasel?

"Last night," Littlefinger continued, "A messenger arrived from Moat Cailin. He reported that a small party of men were heading up the Kingsroad. They had stopped at the fort and begged passage north, claiming they were heading for the Wall. Our men there let them through."

"How many men are we talking?" Tormund interrupted.

Littlefinger's eyes flashed towards Tormund. His expression gave nothing away.

"Our scout counted twenty two."

One of the Vale knights scoffed. "Twenty two men. Surely they are no concern of ours. What threat could they possibly pose?"

"My thoughts exactly," Littlefinger replied smoothly. "Until I learned who was in their party."

"And who would that be?" Jon asked.

"Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr."

Some murmuring went up among the lords.

The names didn't mean shit to Tormund.

"As many of you know," Littlefinger continued, "They call themselves the Brotherhood without Banners. They were started by your father, Jon, when he was Hand of the King, and tasked to hunt down Gregor Clegane and restore peace and justice in the Riverlands. Now, they're hardly more than a band of outlaws. They dispense their own brand of justice but they bow to no one."

"What do they want with the Wall?" Jon asked.

Littlefinger shrugged. "They claim they wish to join with the forces there to defend it, but what their true aims are, I don't know."

"Why do you doubt them?" Jon asked.

"Because, after sheltering in a nearby village for a night they changed their course. They're two days ride from Winterfell now. And also, I doubt them because of who else has joined their party."

Littlefinger paused. He was building up to something. Some dramatic reveal.

"Just spit it out already," Tormund said, tired of the intrigue.

Littlefinger turned his attention to Tormund. A small smile played at his lips but his eyes were cold.

"The Hound rides with them."

The murmuring intensified. Everyone knew this name, it appeared.

"Lady Brienne killed him," Davos said, speaking for the first time. "In the Riverlands. She told us the first time she met us. Sandor Clegane is dead."

"Then it appears he did not _stay_ dead," Littlefinger replied. "A family trait, I'm inclined to think."

"Are you sure it was him?" Jon asked. "Your scout couldn't be mistaken?"

"I'm sure we'll all agree that the Hound is rather recognizable. Not a face easily forgotten. No, I don't think my scout was mistaken, Your Grace. The Hound is alive and he's heading right for us."

"Is anyone going to explain who the fucking Hound is?" Tormund asked. He hated exposing his ignorance in Southern matters, but he hated not knowing even more.

Littlefinger's answering smile made Tormund want to bash the lordling's head into the table.

"How uncourteous of us. Of course you wouldn't know, living in the wild, as you did."

Jon interrupted, before the conversation could take a turn for the worse.

"His name is Sandor Clegane. Everyone calls him the Hound because he wears a helm of a snarling dog and he was the personal bodyguard to Joffrey Baratheon for a time. He deserted during the Battle of Blackwater Bay, and no one has seen him since, except Brienne, who claimed she killed him during a fight in the Riverlands. He was traveling with my little sister, Arya." Jon paused for a moment, sadness clouding his eyes.

"After the battle, Arya disappeared. No one has seen her or the Hound since. He was supposed to be dead."

Tormund scratched his beard absentmindedly.

"Dead men don't stay dead much anymore, do they, Snow?"

"Not anymore," Jon agreed.

"But what does he want at Winterfell?" Davos asked.

"Well, that may be easier to guess," Littlefinger replied. "My scout spoke with some of villagers who housed the Brotherhood. They said the Hound was mostly interested in who held the castle now, and when they mentioned Sansa Stark, he grew visibly upset."

"Sansa?" Tormund asked, a sense of foreboding sinking in. "What does she have to do with it?"

Littlefinger shrugged. "I'm not sure. The Hound was Joffrey's personal bodyguard while he was betrothed to Sansa. Perhaps he thinks that if he returns her to the Lannisters his debt will be forgiven. Or perhaps, he thinks that if Sansa is here, Brienne must also be here. If they did fight in the Riverlands, he may wish to revenge himself on her."

"What do you suggest we do about it?" Jon asked Littlefinger.

"Sandor Clegane is a fierce fighter. It would take many men to bring him down. I don't think we should allow him inside the castle until we know what his motives are."

"I agree," one of the Vale Knights added.

Jon ignored him.

"Lord Baelish, you still haven't answered the question."

"I think we should get rid of him."

"And how do you suggest we do that?"

"We hold the castle," one of the Vale Knights interrupted. "When he comes to call, we fill him full of arrows. None of ours are harmed and the threat is neutralized."

Lady Lyanna shook her head in disgust.

"North of the Wall we heard tales of the chivalry of Southern Knights. I'm glad to know it was all a load of shit," Tormund replied.

"Tormund," Jon warned, before turning his attention back to Littlefinger and the men from the Vale. "We're not going to kill Sandor Clegane. Not without talking to him first. We don't know yet what his intentions are. And he was the last person to see Arya alive."

"We need a party to ride out and speak with him, it seems," Littlefinger suggested.

"I'll go," Jon offered immediately.

"You can't," Lyanna Mormont said, her child-voice fierce.

"I agree with Lady Mormont," Littlefinger replied. "You are the king now, you cannot leave the castle so unprotected. You should send an envoy."

"Let me guess, that would include you?" Tormund asked him.

"No, I'm afraid Clegane will hardly trust me. Or any of the other lords gathered here. But perhaps he would trust Sir Davos, who is known for his loyalty. And of course there should also be a leader of the Free Folk. Someone who can talk to him in language simple enough for him to understand. Killer to killer. Tormund, you are not afraid to face the Hound, are you?"

Tormund ground his teeth.

"I'm not afraid of anything south of the Wall," he answered. "Let alone some dog."

Littlefinger clapped his hands together. A triumphant smile on his face.

"Then it is settled. Tormund and Sir Davos will ride out to treat with the Brotherhood. They will find out what their intentions are and report back immediately. We should begin to make arrangements for their travel."

Jon nodded absentmindedly.

The other lords began to excuse themselves from the table, until all who were left were Jon, Davos, and Tormund himself.

"You fool," Davos whispered as soon as they were alone. "You walked right into his trap."

"What trap?" Tormund asked, voice thick with irritation.

He was just now realizing what this mission would mean for him.

" _I'll come to you tonight,"_ she'd said, tangled in his sheets.

But he wouldn't be there. He'd be freezing his dick off on the way to meet with some madman who thought he was a dog.

He groaned and ran his hands through his hair.

"Littlefinger just managed to strip Jon of his two closest allies and send us off where we have about as good a chance of being run through as we do making the Hound listen to us. He's hoping he signed our death warrants," Davos said.

Tormund's eyes landed on Jon, who nodded his head in agreement.

"Fuck," Tormund muttered. "Alright, what do we do about it then?"

"The Hound is dangerous," Jon said, "But he isn't insane like his brother. We need to know what his intentions are towards Sansa and also what happened to Arya. Whether we like it or not, he may be the key to finding her, and I won't pass up that opportunity for anything."

"What about Sansa?" Tormund asked. "None of us have asked her about the Hound. Maybe she knows something that can help us."

"I don't want to upset her," Jon said softly.

"She's not a fucking child, Snow. She can handle a question about the bodyguard to her dead betrothed."

Jon stared at him. Tormund was afraid he'd given something away, but finally, Jon nodded.

"You're right. She isn't a child anymore. We should ask her opinion."

"But where is she?" Davos asked.

Jon looked at Tormund for a long moment.

"I think I have an idea."

* * *

Snow was falling in the godswood. Already the ground was covered in a light dusting.

Sansa was seated before the heart tree, beside the frozen pond, her grey cloak spread out around her and her head bowed.

She looked up when she heard them approaching, her face a mask of worry.

"What's happened," she asked, rising to her feet and brushing away a few fallen leaves that clung to her skirts.

Her eyes flickered from Jon to Tormund.

He wanted to reassure her that all was well. That Jon didn't suspect a thing. But of course, he couldn't do more than give a short shake of his head.

Still, it was enough. Her worried expression melted away and she smiled.

"Did you come to pray with me?"

"I don't pray, anymore," Jon replied.

"And I never have," Tormund answered.

"Then I shall have to teach you both," Sansa said with a smile.

"Sansa, we need to talk to you."

She licked her lips lightly.

She did that when she was nervous, Tormund knew. He was getting to know all of her little quirks.

"About what?"

"Do you want to come inside?" Jon asked, evading the question. "Somewhere warmer?"

Her eyes flickered to Tormund.

"What is my brother trying to avoid saying?"

"There's someone coming for you," Tormund said, without preamble. "Someone named the Hound. He's two days ride from here. We don't know what he means to do when he gets here but Davos and I are going to head him off."

To Tormund's surprise, Sansa's face lit up.

"Sandor Clegane? He's alive?"

"Aye."

She spun away from them then, and sank down before the heart tree, reaching a hand out and placing it against the trunk.

"Thank you," she whispered, just loud enough for Tormund to hear.

"Sansa, are you alright?" Jon asked, his voice equal parts worried and confused.

Sansa stood then and faced them.

Her face was composed once more, but her eyes burned with an intensity Tormund had only seen a handful of times before. The most recent of which, had been today, in his bed.

Something was wrong.

Sansa swept up her skirts and squared her shoulders.

"Well, when do we leave?"

* * *

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay. Put in some much needed work on my original WIP these last couple of weeks. Your reviews definitely helped me regain focus on this piece though. Can't wait for the next chapter, which will feature something I've been obsessing over for a while now: a meeting between Sansa, Tormund, and the Hound. :)


	7. Chapter 7

Their party rode for most of the day. Until darkness spread across the sky like ink leaching into parchment, turning the grim grey clouds to black, and they came to a village with an small wooden inn.

There were forty soldiers in their party—twenty knights of the Vale (a stipulation Littlefinger had insisted on), ten northerners, and ten of Tormund's best warriors—and Sansa herself, who rode with her hood back and snowflakes lacing an ornament of silver and cold in her flaming hair.

She was so beautiful, Tormund thought. And so unreachable.

Her mind was occupied, with images of what—or whom—that he didn't dare guess.

 _Who was this man that claimed her thoughts? What was he to her?_

The question bounced around in his skull with every stride of his horse.

Even after they stabled their horses at the inn. Even after they ate and the men fell to drinking and Sansa retreated to her room at the top of the stairs, and Tormund went to stand guard. He couldn't dislodge the question.

 _Who was he?_

The men were loud downstairs as the night wore on, their voices raucous and echoing. They were warm and fed and there were serving girls to distract them. And so no one heard when Sansa's door creaked open and she pulled Tormund inside. No one heard the door close behind them, or the bolt slide in the lock. And then they were alone.

* * *

Inside her room it was black as pitch. No moonlight filtered in from the shuttered window and no torches burned on the wall. In the darkness, Tormund couldn't see. But oh, he could feel.

"I told you I'd come to you tonight," Sansa whispered against his fevered mouth.

He had her up against the door to her room. The soft swells of her breasts pressed against his chest and her leg wrapped around his waist, drawing him in close. She was wearing a shift and nothing else and her skin felt like fire under his incessant hands.

Her body against his was making him insane.

The reasonable part of his brain knew he shouldn't be here. Knew that it was foolish. Idiotic even. Knew that there were forty men downstairs with their heads in their cups, and that twenty of them would have loved nothing more than to kill him just for being a wildling. If they found him with their lady—

He should stop.

It would have been easier to quit breathing.

Tormund pulled Sansa's shift from her shoulders, exposing several inches of silken skin. She gasped when his hands found her breasts and his fingers circled her nipples. Moaned his name. Like he loved.

He lowered his lips to the smooth column of her throat, raining kisses on the sensitive skin there. Her breathing was becoming erratic, hitching in her throat at the sensation of his mouth on her skin, and finally, she moaned so loudly that Tormund pulled away.

"Be quiet, girl," he warned her. "Do you want half the inn to come barging in thinking you're being murdered?"

"No," she said, chastised. Then, "Tormund, are you angry with me?"

There was a nakedness in her voice. A timidity he wasn't used to hearing.

"Does it feel like I'm angry with you?" he said.

He wanted to crush her to him again. Tangle his hands in her hair and carry her to bed. Wanted to lay her down on it and fuck her until morning.

Wanted to know what this man—Sandor Clegane—meant to her.

But who was he to ask? And why would she answer? He'd seen the way she lied. The half-truths she told. She'd as likely lie to him as tell him the truth. And he didn't think he could stand that.

He pulled away from her.

"That wasn't an answer," Sansa said.

"I should go."

He felt around behind her for the door.

"Tormund, please." She placed her hands on his chest. "Talk to me."

He took a long unsteady breath. Released it. Weighed his options and thought _oh, fuck it._ "

"Who is he?" Tormund asked.

"Who?"

"Sandor Clegane. The Hound. Whatever his name is. This man you'd risk your life to see."

Silence greeted his words. Sansa took her hands off his chest.

"He was Joffrey's bodyguard in King's Landing. That's all."

Tormund sighed. She was building up her walls between them.

"Alright then," he said, fumbling for the door. "Good night, m'lady Stark. Sweet dreams."

"Tormund, wait!"

He waited.

The silence stretched between them, punctured only by the sounds of their breathing and the distant echo of voices from the common room.

"He saved my life," Sansa finally said. "In King's Landing, there was a mob. There were men…men who wanted to hurt me…who would have killed me. Sandor risked his life to save me from them when no one else would have. And he stopped Joffrey from hurting me. Whenever he could. He was…kind to me."

"And were you kind to him?"

"What?" she asked. Her voice had gone hard.

 _What was he doing? What was wrong with him?_ All he knew was that he couldn't stop.

"Did you lie with him as a sort of _thank you for saving me_?"

"How dare you." She pushed him hard in the chest. "Get out of my room."

"I would if m'lady wasn't blocking the door."

"Oh." she breathed. "You are so rude."

"Aye, Sansa, I'm a wildling." He took her face in his hands then, though she fought him. "I'm not some lord with a castle and lands. I'm not one of those pretty little knights you like. I'm a fighter. A killer. Nothing more."

"That's not true."

"Isn't it, girl?"

His face was only inches from hers, and even in the darkness he thought he could make out the shape of her lips. If he pulled her against him and devoured those lips like he wanted, what would she do? Would she fight him, or give herself to him?

"Tormund, why are we fighting?"

"We're not."

He heard her breath catch.

"Then what is this?"

"You know what this is."

And then he was against her. Roughly, he tugged her shift down, freeing her breasts completely, and finally further, until she was completely bare against him. He tossed the shift over his shoulder, where it landed with a soft sound, pooling in some unseen corner of the room. He couldn't see her, but he didn't need to. He felt every inch of silken skin pressed against him as he lifted her off her feet and laid her on an old worn-out rug on the floor.

Beneath him she was breathless and bold. She yanked off his own clothing with brutal efficiency, arching her back and writhing her hips against his. Making him crazy with desire.

Gods, he wanted to see her face. Wanted to know what expression she wore when he ran his hand up her leg, marveling at the feel of her against him, and slipped two fingers inside of her. Her breathing was uneven. And with every thrust she emitted little whimpers of pleasure. He lowered his lips to her breast and her breathing became even more erratic, the whimpers louder.

He wanted to make her forget Sandor Clegane and whatever claim he had on her. Make her forget any other man she'd ever met. He wanted to claim her, mark her. He wanted everyone to look at her and know she was his. Only his.

He covered her mouth with his hand. Felt her lips part under his palm. Heard her muffled moan.

Gods, he was going to combust.

He needed to be inside her.

Now.

He withdrew his fingers, though she gave a disappointed groan against his hand, and used it to support himself above her. He took his other hand off of her mouth.

"Sansa, if we go any further, I won't be able to stop. Tell me now what you want."

Her breath was between them, loud in the still room as he waited.

Then her lips rose to meet his, and she pressed her mouth hotly against his.

"Do you really have to ask?" she said.

He smiled, though it was lost in the darkness.

"I want to hear you say it."

Sansa leaned in close then, trailing her tongue along his ear ever so lightly.

"Tormund Giantsbane, will you please stop talking and make love to me already?"

"I thought you'd never ask, girl."

They came together then as he slid himself inside her. Slowly at first and then less slowly. Gently and then less gently. With every thrust becoming more fevered, more frenzied, more desperate.

"Cover my mouth," she begged.

He put his hand over her parted lips just in time, as the waves crashed down on her and she cried out.

His buried his face in her hair.

There were forty soldiers downstairs sworn to protect the lady of Winterfell, and none of them suspected a thing, as their lady and a wildling warrior made love to wake the Gods on the floorboards above their head.

* * *

Author's Note: So I didn't introduce the Hound...sorry, sorry. This last chapter was really tough to write. I started several times but nothing was working. Only when I left Tormund and Sansa alone did it finally come to life. So yeah, short but hopefully sweet. :)


	8. Chapter 8

Sansa was growing inpatient. That morning, they'd sent out riders from the village in every direction, all carrying the same message.

 _The Lady of Winterfell requests the honor of your presence at the Fall Creek Inn to discuss your movement across her lands._

She was supposed to stay inside the inn until Sandor and the Brotherhood arrived, but she found that she couldn't sit still. She'd only have to look at the floor where she had lain with Tormund hours before to lose any semblance of composure. For the first time in her life, she understood why the men around her released their pent up emotions inside the sparring ring. So, she did the only logical thing she could think of. She went to Tormund and begged him to fight her.

At first, she'd been afraid that he wouldn't be able to train her anymore, after what had transpired the night before. That he'd shy away from hitting her. From hurting her.

She needn't have worried.

"Get your head out of your ass, girl," he hollered from above her, after he'd knocked her to the ground for the third consecutive time. The sky was a pale grey, like the underside of a wolf's belly, and his red hair was a flame against it. He stretched his hand out to her and pulled her roughly to her feet. "How are you supposed to defend yourself lying on your back?"

Sansa brushed the snow off her tunic, wincing at the soreness in her shoulder. The last fall had been hard. They were working on hand-to-hand combat, and Sansa had learned almost immediately that she was outmatched in all aspects against Tormund. Strength, dexterity, speed. All of them fell in the wildling's favor.

"I can't help that I'm a woman," she told him, the words coming out far more self-pitying than she'd intended. Her braid had come loose, and she took a moment to untangle the strands, brushing her fingers roughly through them. Tormund watched her at first with irritation, but it quickly melted away and was replaced with barely restrained longing. He loved the feel of her hair against his skin, the way it feel around them like a curtain, concealing them from the outside world, whenever she leaned in to kiss him.

He glanced around the clearing, confirming their privacy before stepping closer to her.

"Stop playing with your hair, girl," he told her, though his eyes said something else entirely.

"Why?" she asked, looking at him from under her dark lashes, all wide eyed innocence while she weaved her hair into another thick plait.

Tormund pulled out a knife from his boot then, the same knife Sansa had held in her hands and grazed across his skin. She shivered involuntarily.

"I should cut it off," he said, pointing to her long auburn braid. There was a smile playing on his lips and his eyes were twinkling mischievously.

"You wouldn't."

"I would," he said, stalking closer as Sansa took a hasty step back. "No opponent is going to give you time to fix your hair, girl. It would be a favor really, since it's so distracting to you."

He was kidding, wasn't he?

She thought so, but still he came closer and the knife in his hands didn't waver.

"Tormund, this isn't funny." She retreated two more steps and her back collided with the unyielding trunk of a tree.

Tormund sank down into a crouch, like a stalking animal. "Who said it was supposed to be funny?"

Her heart was pounding a ragged tempo in her chest. "Tormund, you're scaring me."

"Good." And then, he lunged for her.

She spun away from the tree, narrowly missing being taken in his outstretched arms. She wasn't sure if he still held the knife, but she didn't dare look back to check. She ran. Faster than she'd ever run before, weaving among the trees, barreling through the snow drifts. She could hear him behind her at first as he pursued her. She heard his great booming laugh and his shouts of what he was going to with all her lovely hair after he'd cut it off. But soon, that fell away to be replaced only by the sounds of her own jagged breathing.

She hid behind the trunk of a giant oak tree, the branches above barren and snow laden, while she caught her breath. The bird song of the forest was the first sound to reach her ears, once her breathing had slowed back to normal, and the occasional creak and groan of straining branches in the wind.

But there were no sounds of Tormund.

Slowly, cautiously, she peeked around the trunk of the tree, careful to stay as close to its bark as possible.

Nothing moved in the icy forest before her eyes. She was alone.

It wasn't possible.

She had never managed to outmaneuver him before.

And yet.

Her heart swelled with the accomplishment. She was never going to let him forget this. How an unarmed girl had managed to escape the great wildling warrior Tormund Giantsbane. She almost clapped her hands together with glee, so happy was she in that moment.

And then, she felt the soft bite of steel resting against the exposed flesh of her neck, and a voice in her ear whispered with barely restrained mirth, "Dead."

Surprisingly gentle hands seized her shoulders and spun her around, and she had a moment to look at Tormund's laughing eyes before she found herself crushed against him, his mouth hungry on hers.

He must have dropped the knife in the snow at their feet, because he used one hand to tangle in the hair at the nape of her neck and the other to press her roughly up against the tree trunk. He moulded the hard edges of his body around the soft curves of hers, and tugged down the tunic on her shoulders, taking his time to suck on the delicate skin at the base of her throat.

She leaned her head back and moaned, wrapping her leg around him and drawing him closer into her.

It was dangerous, what they were doing. Foolish and fearless and incomparably reckless.

And neither of them could stop.

"Sansa," Tormund managed as she slid her hands under the heavy layer of furs he wore and to the bare skin underneath.

She loved the play of his muscles under her fingers. The fire of his skin against hers. She ground her hips against his and heard his answering groan of pleasure and smiled.

Tormund pulled back from her then, to look in her eyes. His own were wild.

He ran a hand gently down her face, cupping her chin and tilting her face up to meet his.

"Gods, you're beautiful," he said. He tugged her braid lightly in his fist. "Especially this. It's a shame to have to cut it all off." The teasing light had returned to his eyes.

Sansa pushed against his chest. It was like pushing against a wall of stone.

"You think you're so funny, Tormund Giantsbane." She tried to hide her smile, but she couldn't.

He pretended that she hadn't spoken.

"There is a tribe north of the Wall," he mused, "Who cuts off their enemies' ears and wears them in little pouches around their necks." He leaned over and teased her ear with his teeth, eliciting an involuntary shiver from her.

"I need my ears," Sansa replied gravely.

"Aye, I thought so too," Tormund agreed, just as grave. Again he tugged on her braid, this time pulling the ribbon from its end and running his hand up through the strands. "But this hair, you don't need it, do you?"

"You wouldn't think me very pretty without it," Sansa warned him.

Tormund removed his hand from her chin and ran his fingers lightly along the bones of her face, first tracing her high cheekbones, then her delicate nose, the pale skin of her eyelids, and finally, her soft, full lips.

"That isn't true, Sansa," Tormund replied, expression intense. "Even without all of your pretty hair, you'd still be the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen."

She leaned up on her toes then, and claimed his lips with her own.

Her eyes were closed and his hands were everywhere and she could smell him and taste him and feel him against her. And then she heard it. The crack of a branch behind them, someone's guttural curse, and her eyes opened, and she had just enough time to scream "no" before the bark overhead exploded with the force of a sword swinging against it.

Tormund recovered so fast that even pressed against him as she was, she was startled.

One moment he was clutching her against him and the next she was pushed to the ground behind him, and he was holding his sword raised before him and his feet were squared in a fighting stance, and he was protecting her with the shield of his body.

"Sansa, run!" he told her, and she'd never heard fear naked in his voice like that before. Fear for _her_.

She got to her feet quickly, her heart pounding like a bird straining against the cage of her ribs and looked past Tormund's hulking form.

And there, squaring off against the man she had been kissing only moments before, was the Hound, nearly every inch of his seven foot frame trembling with rage and regret and something else too.

"Has he hurt you?" His eyes were fixed on her face as though Tormund did not even exist.

"No, Sandor, he hasn't hurt me."

Some of the rage went out of him, then, though he did not drop his sword an hairsbreadth.

"Do you want me to kill him?"

Tormund cursed under his breath but Sansa only shook her head.

"No, Sandor."

The Hound frowned and sheathed his sword, his eyes leaving her face for a moment to consider Tormund.

"Fucking wildlings," he finally said. "Put your sword away already, if she wanted you dead, you'd be dead. Luckily for you, the little bird must like you."

Tormund tore his eyes away from the Hound long enough to catch a glimpse of Sansa's expression. Something in Sandor's nickname for her stirred emotions in her chest that she had thought long dead.

" _This_ is the Hound?" Tormund asked her, though he already knew the answer.

She nodded.

Squaring her shoulders and stepping between them, Sansa drew on her years of etiquette training when she announced with perfect clarity, "Tormund Giantsbane meet Sandor Clegane, my only true friend left in this world."

* * *

Tormund watched the Hound all the long journey through the woods back to the inn.

He did not miss the long lingering glances he cast on Sansa's face, nor the way his body gravitated towards hers, as though she were a sinking ship pulling him down with her.

Tormund knew exactly what this stranger was thinking, because he'd felt it himself.

He was wondering exactly what Sansa would feel like pressed against him. He was wondering what she'd taste like. What sounds she'd make when he was inside her. They were involuntary thoughts, Tormund knew. And he'd almost forgive him for them. It was impossible to look into Sansa's clear green eyes and not feel the lull of her beauty. To stand next to her and feel her warmth. To smell the perfume of her hair and not wonder what she'd look like with her hair splayed out on your pillow. Impossible. He'd seen many men look at her in that way and it hadn't bothered him before. Well, not overly much.

But this, this was different.

There was a shy way she had of looking at him too. A way that she held her body that made it all too obvious that she was as conscious of him beside her as he was of her.

And the fucker was huge too. Enormous. Jon had told him of course, told him that the Hound was more animal than man. And Tormund had lived among Thenns. He'd seen _giants_. A man should have been nothing to him. Even a large man. But for the first time in a long time, Tormund wasn't sure he could beat his opponent with steel or fists or even a fucking arrow straight to the chest. And that was unsettling.

Sansa looked back at Tormund then and smiled, and the happiness on her face was almost too much for him to bear.

So he kept his mouth shut, and his eyes open, and his hand on the hilt of his sword, and he followed the Hound's hulking form and Sansa's delicate one back to the inn.

* * *

Author's Note: The Hound! Finally! Would love to know what you guys think. Let me know with a review. :)


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